


The Fool's Journey

by howsyasister



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Grunge Prophet Dean!AU, Low Fantasy, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:16:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2288189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howsyasister/pseuds/howsyasister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU with just a bit more magic. Things proceed as normal, wrestlers wrestler and commentators commentate and Dusty Rhodes is Dusty Rhodes, but witches and werewolves and banshees are just sort of a part of life, as well.</p>
<p>Dean Ambrose has always known he's something special. It takes a night of drinking for him to realize, though, that he literally cannot lie. Everything that comes out of his mouth is true, whether it has already come to pass or is still waiting to happen. </p>
<p>A series of vignettes focused on people and moments pivotal in Dean's journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fool's Journey

**Author's Note:**

> I'm super huge on tarot, which is what the plot of this fic will be based on. Like, shamelessly and egregiously so.
> 
> Also, blood is probably going to happen a lot? I hesitate to tag it as violent just yet, but it's certainly in here from the get-go, so consider yourselves warned.

It starts in a smokey bar. Smokey bars are kind of a Thing for Dean Ambrose, though he’s got a different name, here. That’s what you do when you swing fluorescent lights at guys while you’re stomping on thumbtacks and legos: you use a different name. It starts in a smokey bar, surrounded by people he doesn’t really care about, and Dean is just rambling with a bottle of something local and cheap in his hand, using it to add to his gestures as he spouts the first thing that comes to mind, answering questions whenever he can. He’s realized, halfway through his half-dozenth beer that he’s never said a lie in his life, and that’s pretty goddamned cool, so now he’s seeing what all he can say before it stops being true.

Turns out, a hell of a lot. He’s accurately mumbling to his cohorts what drinks people are ordering up at the bar, pointing out who’s going home with who, all on a hunch. As with most talents of Dean's, he abuses it. Making comments on the wrong girl, who happens to be the wrong guy’s girlfriend, winds up getting the shit beat out of him in the alley behind the bar. The asshole thinks he’s won, but the damage with his lady has been done. Dean can't tell a lie. He physically can't let one out of his mouth. Announcing she was going to leave her boyfriend by the end of the week in this situation may have been a self-fulfilling prophecy, but if they guy beats up fortune-tellers in back alleys, Dean decides she’s better off without him anyway.

Blood streaks down his face, dripping onto his shirt, his pants legs, and the pavement below, and his nose is probably broken again, but he's feeling invincible. He's lightheaded, sinking to the ground, not even wincing when his still gnarly back rests against brick. He tries something, summoning his voice over the buzz of orange lights overhead and the hush of traffic nearby and the dulled clatter of the bar, struggling through more cracks in his voice than there are in the sidewalk. 

"I'm gonna make it to the top," he announces to no one but himself. "I'm gonna fight my way up and fucking wreck everybody who tries to stop me." He laughs, and it echoes off the bricks and dumpster, and he can taste blood creeping into his mouth. It's not important. If he really can't lie, then he's on a crash collision out of shit dive bars and into his dreams. He stays sitting, laughing in a way that's just a giddy as it is terrifying, even in his own ears, as he gets his head together again slowly. The laughter ebbs away as the tiny rivers from his brow and nose and probably scalp slow to an occasional drip, but with no actual friends in the bar to worry about him, he stays put until the bleeding stops and he can stagger home without leaving a trail.

That night, he dreams of faces he's never seen, that he decides he shouldn't forget.


End file.
